Falling, Catching
by CTippy
Summary: This will be a series of pieces - more or less brief, more or less connected to one another - about Jaime and Brienne, and their relationship.
1. Hair

This idea started with a ficlet included in my collection "All in One Sentence", and it's also the first piece of this series.

I apologise for any mistakes you might find, English is not my native language.

* * *

She let her hair grow longer, he had noticed one day. He told her it was very becoming and she just looked at him for a long moment as her eyes grew bigger, her lips parted and her mouth hesitant.

What he had not told her was how fascinated he was by that strand of hair that would fall down no matter what she did to keep it in place. Before he knew it, he had found himself engrossed in watching her tuck it behind her ear in irritation, only to see the unruly one break loose the moment she moved her head. Her long callous fingers moved almost unconsciously now as she mechanically trapped it time and time again, unaware of his gaze and the amused smile gradually settling on his lips, green eyes gleaming at the sight of the rebel lock slowly slipping away once more as a voice inside his head exclaimed "There it goes again!"

* * *

Author's notes: So basically this came out while I was writing a one-sentence fic; I had this image of Jaime looking at her in amusement but also with tenderness, being engrossed by her without even realising it. And then out of nowhere I thought about this passage from North & South by Elizabeth Gaskell, which is one of my favourite books and mini-series:

 _She had a bracelet on one taper arm, which would fall down over her round wrist. Mr. Thornton watched the replacing of this troublesome ornament with far more attention than he listened to her father. It seemed as if it fascinated him to see her push it up impatiently until it tightened her soft flesh; and then to mark the loosening — the fall. He could almost have exclaimed — "There it goes again!"_

And I felt inspired to write something based on that - and I wanted to include John's almost "There it goes again" because I had this image of Jaime thinking the same as he looked at Brienne doing whatever I decided she would be doing. I was searching for something to replace the bracelet, and my mind thought about Brienne's hair, since lately I've been thinking I would like to see Brienne with Gwen's current hair length.


	2. Golden Hand

Here is the second instalment of this series. I hope you'll like it. :)

I want to thank Aerest for not only being the best beta I could've hoped for, but for always being supportive, kind, understanding, and adorable. Also thank you for helping to make the sword fighting better.

Apologies to december: I had promised I would post the chapter yesterday, but - because of several circumstances - I didn't. I can only hope this little thing was worth the wait. :)

I apologise for any mistakes you might find, English is not my native language.

* * *

She had never seen him without his golden hand.

It had its uses, despite its appearance - he had shown her once, when he had insisted they spar together. She had unarmed him and was about to end the match with a final blow, but he had suddenly ducked away and blocked her sword with it, using his free left hand to bring his belt knife to her throat. After a first moment of surprise, her gaze had darted to his face only to realise he was looking at her with that smug grin of his and it was all she could do not to roll her eyes at him.

Even more surprising had been to hear him confess how unexpectedly satisfying it had felt to slap people with it, her hands gently holding the prosthetic to have a closer look. Whatever she thought she had caught in his green eyes the moment she had lifted her own to look at him, it was quickly gone.

Stories about the hand he ofttimes hid in a black glove had spread in some way - after his campaign in Riverrun, it was said. Some were told with reluctant respect, others with contempt. Some were true for the most part, others were pure fabrication - or so he had told her once, with an amused smile that didn't reach his eyes. She had looked at him for a long moment, uncertain. She opened her mouth, thinking of something to say, but no words came out.

When he thought no one was watching, she would catch him with his gaze fixed on the thing - a preoccupied expression on his face, his lips two thin lines pressed together. She had approached him once. His eyes had seemed to soften as she quietly sat down beside him. They looked at each other for a moment, then she attempted a smile. He did the same.

He would not use the hand during their sparring matches anymore. One day she had seen him flinch as he touched the skin below the glove. He knew she had noticed, yet he kept silent. Each of her enquiries was met with denial and a strained smile meant to reassure. It had only made her more resolute. She demanded the truth, holding his gaze in silence as his lips parted, chest heaving as air filled his lungs. Then his mouth closed and his jaw clenched. She left without waiting for an answer.

She was lying in bed when words from the past flooded her mind.

Kingslayer, craven, I was that hand, Jaime. My name is Jaime.

She abruptly stood up, heading out in brisk long strides, a stubborn determination guiding her as she entered his tent.


	3. Left Hand

This took a lot of time and work, despite not being that long. I want to thank Aerest for proposing this idea to me, for having given me some confidence back after I had starting to feel as if I had worked so hard for nothing, and also for being the best beta ever. 3

In this piece there are slight references to the previous instalments of this series.

I apologise for any mistakes you may find, English is not my native language.

* * *

He was certain his left hand would never be as the one he had lost. It felt forced instead of natural, making him look clumsy and awkward. It was strenuous and frustrating. Everything he used to do effortlessly had suddenly become difficult, taking a great deal of time and patience. A patience he had always lacked.

The thought of having to wield a sword would be hateful at times; as much work as he put in it, there seemed to be no way for him to recover the prowess he had once possessed. He endured painful blisters, spasms, bruises. He bore failure time and time again. His skin had turned rough, his fingers calloused - still it wasn't enough. And yet, he could not yield. He would not.

He would spend hours alone repeating the exact same strokes and parries again and again, fighting each lesson learned when he was only a boy at Casterly Rock, each movement absorbed and made instinct by body and mind. He would only stop when exhaustion took him.

He could not fully depend on his swordsmanship anymore, so his eyes would observe the best fighters in the camp, analysing every movement, studying each stroke, seeking any flaws that could lead to an opening. His gaze would ofttimes follow her as she bested one man after another with thoughtful strategy and agile strength. It seemed to him she had improved since their fight in the woods. A smile hovered over his lips as she knocked her opponent into the dust yet again.

Time saw him accepting his flaws and embracing his new-found strengths; if his only hand could not brandish a sword as effectively as his right did, then he would find another way, he had decided. Constant training had made his body more responsive, his arm stronger, his movements faster, allowing him to master new techniques. He had grown more patient, more resilient, more cunning. His confidence thrived on each blow he parried, on every stroke he inflicted, on all the vain efforts to unarm him. . .but only when he succeeded in catching her off-guard – surprise filling her big blue eyes – did his heart sing.

As much as swinging the training sword for hours could be frustrating, having to deal with seemingly manageable actions was no less vexing. He could grab and hold most objects rather easily now - no longer instinctively reaching with his right arm, but there were things simply too elaborate to do for a man with only one hand. Putting his breeches on by himself had become easier but it would still take him time, holding them up with his prosthetic as he tried to tie the laces in some way. He had always disliked writing so he never put much effort into it, his strokes still looking shaky and slightly crooked. Eating remained quite a challenging task whenever the use of both fork and knife was required, so when he had his meals alone he would ofttimes resort to tearing the meat with his teeth. The first time they had supped together in his tent, she had silently cut his meat for him in firm yet graceful motions, her eyes never meeting his. She would keep doing it every time they ate in each other's company, and he would let her.

There were things he had come to appreciate about his situation. It had forced him to lose an identity made of lies and bitterness. It had awakened him, making him the man he was now.

He would spend long moments feeling the sword's texture and shape under his skin, before wrapping his fingers around its hilt. He would let white snow thaw in his palm, until only a cold wet trace remained. His hand would linger on every touch they shared, indulging in the warmth of her skin. One night she had been tending to his stump, tying the bandages gently with her fingers, when the unruly strand of hair fell over her eyes; his hand had reached as if on impulse and tucked it back behind her ear. She had raised her head abruptly, owlish blue eyes staring, his fingers lightly tracing the line of her jaw as he drew them back.


	4. Armour

_It reminded her of Tarth. The armour he had gifted her shone under the sun, blue as the sapphire waters surrounding her home. As her eyes followed the ripples of light shimmering on the metal, she would feel like a child again - the sunlight warming her skin, the clear sky above watching her, the deep brilliant green of the woods all around her._

 _She wore it with pride, together with the most important gift she had ever received. Unbidden, her hand went to the lion on the pommel, her fingers wrapping tightly around it. Her mind wandered back to lingering glances, unuttered feelings, touches that were and that never would be. She felt her chest tighten, heart yearning for something that would never come to pass. They had parted ways, and would likely never see each other again._

* * *

He had offered his help to take her armour off, but no reply had come from her. She had simply stood there, looking at him from the corner of her eye for a long moment before averting her gaze. She had received help to remove her armour before, and yet the thought of Jaime carrying out the task. . . His footsteps were light as he came closer. Her right hand was still fumbling with the straps on her left shoulder piece when he spoke again. _He could give her a hand with that,_ he said standing behind her, _but only the one_. She stopped and looked at him from over her shoulder, his attempt at jesting met with a frown. He smirked but held her gaze, still waiting for her answer.

 _Why blue?_  
The words had left her lips before she knew it, breaking the silence that had fallen between them. His hand stilled for a moment, long fingers resting on sea-coloured plate. She could sense his eyes on her, and kept her own fixed on the ground. The words he uttered however, as he finally untied the buckle, was not an answer to her question.

He had seen Tarth. He had seen her home. She opened her mouth once, twice … Her breath hitched. The pauldron came off almost without her noticing, until his fingers softly ran down the length of her arm before lightly lifting it up. Her eyes flickered to him but never met his, intent as they were on the straps placed on the side of her breastplate, his only hand releasing her wrist from the gentle hold of its fingers in order to reach one.

 _No wonder it was called the Sapphire Isle_ , he had said breaking the silence once again. He expressed his regret for having seen so little of it and from such a great distance. Her eyes returned to the ground beneath her feet, her mind wandering back to the place she had loved so. The place she had left. Brienne wondered if he would go with her someday … Should the gods allow Spring to come for them. For all. They had fallen silent again, the sounds of leather and plate accompanied only by the fire crackling at one end of the room.

He moved away from her side, coming to face her. He helped her lift the breastplate over her head as best as he could, using his golden hand to support its weight. She watched him as he let the piece of armour slide to the ground. Jaime was closer than she had realised. Her chest heaved slowly as she met his gaze. His eyes rested on hers for a long moment, never once leaving them. The green of his eyes was scarcely distinguishable in the dim firelight, shadows and lights dancing on his face. Brienne gave the smallest of nods, and his hand moved. Long fingers paused hesitantly on the collar of her gambeson, the smallest of brushes against the skin of her throat.

 _Her eyes_ , he had said then. Her eyes were the reason her armour was blue.


	5. Name

Okay so... this is the longest piece I've written since that old Valentine Day's AU fic, and it took me some time to get it right, or at least good enough. I want to thank Aerest with all my heart, my kind and supportive beta and friend who led me on the right path to making the original piece into the one it is now. Thank you very much to all the people who have read all the previous pieces of the series so far and have been patiently waiting for an update. I'm very sorry for the wait, I hope this piece will make up for it. :)

P.S.: I have this tendency to listen to songs that remind me of JB while I write about them. I especially have this thing where I listen to the same JB song that gets me in the right mood over and over again until I'm done. The one I've listened to during most of the making of this piece is Hurricane by Fleurie, you can listen to it while reading.

I apologise for any mistakes you might find, English is not my native language.

* * *

The first time she called him Jaime – not ser Jaime, only Jaime – he had been outside at night.

Looking up at the snow that had started to fall he drew in a deep breath, cold air filling his lungs. He was still unused to such weather, and it was only getting harsher the more time passed. A snowflake landed on his open palm, eyes watching as it thawed away. His fingers closed on the wet trace lying in his hand, the landscape quickly turning white. Her skin had looked taut over her collarbone, as pale as the snow falling now before him, but soft to his touch as he worked on her gambeson, and warmer. He wondered if he would ever feel the sun on his skin again.

He had never feared the day he would leave this world, at times he had almost welcomed it. Now he did not. He was prepared to face death, but the thought had become heavy on his chest, tasted bitter in his mouth. Blue eyes flooded his mind, the same colour as the waters he had seen once … Sapphire as the sea surrounding her home. He turned his head, sensing a presence. Her eyes met his as she came to stand beside him.

What was he doing out there in the cold, she had asked. Her figure was hidden in a heavy fur cloak, a strand of hair falling down her forehead. He could ask the same of her, was his reply. She paused, her gaze slowly travelling down to her feet. She had seen him go outside, she admitted. He looked away, the ghost of a smile hovering over his lips.

His eyes flickered to her again. Her plump lips parted, breaths coming out in white warm clouds. Her hands had turned red from the cold, he noticed as she was bringing them to her mouth in an attempt to warm them up. He opened his mouth, words hanging tentatively on his tongue.

He offered his gloves to her. One of them was only on for appearances' sake and the other he was not wearing anyway, he insisted. She refused, saying that her hands were fine and let them slide down her sides. Her stare was fixed on the dimly lit darkness before them.

He reached for her slowly, cautiously, the back of his hand brushing hers. Uncertain fingers touched the calloused skin of hers, keeping them in a delicate hold, waiting. A long moment passed, then her hand slipped into his, fingers wrapping tightly around it.

The briefest of moments and her hand was no longer in his, eyes watching as she turned to leave. His voice was struggling to come out when suddenly she stopped, her head turning towards him, gleaming blue eyes gazing into his.

 _Goodnight, Jaime._

His lips parted slightly then closed again quickly. She was gone. His chest heaved sharply as air filled his lungs. He could still feel the warmth of her skin in the palm of his hand.

* * *

The second time she called him Jaime was on the day she thought she had lost him.

She had found him lying on the white blanket covering the ground, a rotted corpse without half its head and his sword near him. He had been there a while, she noticed with growing apprehension, shivering hands carefully removing a thin layer of snow from his face. Faint breathing tickled her fingers as she did so. He was alive … He was alive. She gently took him in her arms, eyes searching for the wound staining the snow with his blood. His eyes fluttered open then, and she called his name, her voice a trembling whisper. His gaze moved slowly up her face, eyes tired as they met hers. He had not been quick enough, were his last words to her.

She had spent hours beside his unconscious body. He lived, the gods had looked over him. Still, he would not wake up. Tears fell quietly down her cheeks as she held his hand, her heart heavy and her stomach in knots. He would chastise her for wasting time on him given what would soon await them all, she knew. She did not care.

She had forced herself to eat before heading outside, towards the training field. Her body ached as it moved, limbs heavy and slow. She hit the air as hard as she could, howling out sorrow and fear. Her mind was still there beside him.

It was dark outside when she went back to him. The skin of his hand had seemed warmer as she took it into hers.

The first thing he remembered after waking up had been blue eyes looking down to him, her voice calling his name … a warm drop of water damping his cheek. She had been the one to find him, to save him. His jaw tightened.

He tried to sit up and his head started spinning, nausea rising in his throat. He breathed deeply, slowly until the dizziness waned. Only then he saw her sitting next to where he lay, big blue eyes brimming with tears. His gaze followed as a wet streak fell down the side of her nose until it stopped on her upper lip, a deep sigh escaping her mouth. He swallowed, eyes blinking rapidly. His lips parted as if to speak, but only a hoarse sound came out. He felt the warmth of her skin on his then, thumb gently stroking the back of his hand as her long fingers closed around his. He squeezed back tightly, yearning to reach, to touch, to feel.

* * *

The third time she called him Jaime, it was barely a whisper.

Brienne had stepped in the dimly lit room and found him awake. He looked healthier, though far from recovered. Long golden hair fell down his face as he tried to change the dressing on his wound. She moved towards him, the wooden floor creaking under her feet. His head turned in her direction. Her legs faltered, her eyes did not. What she saw in his expression, she could not tell. He walked towards her with uncertain steps, until he finally stood before her.

Jaime could feel her soft and attentive touch as she helped him with the bandage. Her eyes were focused on the task at hand, letting him free to follow her every movement, take in the slightest changes in her broad face, waiting for the moment the blue of her eyes would appear through thick eyelashes and unruly strands of hair.

He felt her hands finally leaving his wounded side, and her eyes met his as she lifted her head. In the quiet he thought he heard her breath quicken. As his fingers closed around her wrist, he wondered if her chest was aching as much as his.

The green of his eyes burned into hers with desperate desire in the fire-lit darkness, his gaze wandering down her face as he moved closer, mouth opening, eyelids falling shut. Big blue depths watched him in stunned silence and her lips parted as if compelled by his hunger, hesitant and uncertain in her longing. The slightest of brushes and in a moment the ghost of his warmth was all that remained, her mouth tentatively following the receding trail of his untasted lips, foreheads barely touching as his eyes fluttered open.

A trembling sigh escaped his lips. Her eye followed his hand as it gently slid from her wrist to her hand. She slowly freed herself from his hold, gaze still averted from his as her open palm came to rest on his chest. The pulsating of his heart felt clear and strong under her fingers. She breathed out his name, her eyes finally meeting his.

She saw dim yellow light dancing in dark green pools, together with something else. Something delicate yet unwavering, meant only for her to hold. She took in the wrinkles around his eyes, gaze tracing the white in his hair and beard, at last settling on his lips. Her head moved slowly as she closed the distance between them, her mouth softly pressing against his. She closed her eyes and he did the same before kissing her back.

His arm slid around her waist, embracing her, pulling her close. He felt her hand move from his chest, thumb brushing over the skin of his throat before her fingers came to rest on his neck. He captured her lips as they opened slightly against his. A faint, low moan rose from him as their tongues met. Her fingers curled fast around the nape of his neck.

Jaime kept holding her in his arms even after their lips had parted. He would not let go of her, not yet. His side was throbbing, but he refused to acknowledge it.

A bead of sweat glistened as it fell down his temple. He looked pale, even in the faint firelight. Brienne cupped his face with an anxious hand. He reached it with his, holding it for a long moment. His face moved close to hers again, leaving the comfort of her touch. He nuzzled her cheek lightly, tracing her skin down to her neck, until his tired head gently came to rest on her collarbone.

* * *

So, how did you like it? If you have thought there was something familiar at the end of the piece, then you're right because the scene of the almost kiss was already published in my one-sentence/drabbles collection. It was originally meant for this series, but there had been a time when I didn't know if I would keep going long enough to reach that moment, so I added it there. I decided to include it despite it being already out there because I am kind of attached to it and it still worked well with the piece, so here's why you've found it here again.  
I don't know if this will end up being the last piece of this series. I have it in my plans to make two sort of bonus pieces, probably much shorter than this one, where we get to see them together and happy, but I still haven't started on them and don't know if I'll be able to make a good enough job to publish them. I have all the intentions to keep writing a bit more for this story, so don't consider it finished yet, BUT should I decide later on that this is the last piece of the series, I hope you'll have found it a satisfying ending. :)


	6. Morning

She had awakened one morning to find his legs entangled between hers. She could feel his warmth against her skin, one of his feet stroking gently against her ankle, an unconscious movement in his sleep.

His beard had grown long, Brienne mused as her eyes settled on Jaime's face, his expression peaceful as he slept.

The last time he had worn it this long was the first time they had met. She used to look at him with contempt. How had her heart changed since then. There was more white in the beard now. His mouth was slightly open, his breathing slow, steady. A smile tucked at her lips.

Her hand moved, fingers brushing against the white of his temple as she pulled back a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead.

* * *

When he roused, he found her looking at something in his hair, her hand caressing his temple. His mind wandered back to the night before, to words and touches meant only for each other.

He felt her halt for a moment as she realised he was awake. She drew her hand back. He grinned. She rolled her eyes at him.

Brienne attempted to move, but Jaime trapped her legs with his and pulled her closer. She did not protest, her hand closing on the arm holding her.

His forehead came to rest against her collarbone as he breathed her in. Her hand moved up, calloused fingers buried in long golden hair.

He tightened his hold on her. She sighed.


End file.
